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Pairing: Pete/bb!Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4800
Warnings: Patrick is underage! Also, a bit of public!sex.
Author's notes/Disclaimer: You know the drill. A bit rushed, and unbetaed, so apologies for all mistakes! I AM A BIT ASHAMED OF THIS.
Summary: written for
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anon_lovefest 's prompt: Pete's New Year Resolution is not to hit on any minors. He does good on that until he meets bb!Patrick at a show. Title from sweet tangerines by The Hush Sound. Pete has one resolution this year. It comes to him as he lies idly in bed, right after a loud screech of irresponsible driving rips through the night. He grapples with his phone - he forgets which nightstand it is on briefly, and nearly tips off the wrong side of the bed - to type it out before he forgets.
no hitting on jailbait!! for the new yr.
(Pete has had unfortunate experiences with New Year's resolutions. He meant to keep them, he really did, and he doesn't appreciate Gabe's quoting good intentions pave the road to hell in an unnecessarily patronizing tone at him. So the resolution he made about drinking less was derailed ... well, two hours later during the label's perennial New Year's party when Gabe shoved five shots into his hand at once, and Pete is torn between despair and admiration for himself for managing to balance all that, and Pete held out for a day and twenty hours not swearing once, which was kind of like holding his bladder after he drank five bottles of beer in succession, a lengthy way of saying cruel, tedious torture, before Gabe jumped on him from nowhere whatsoever and surprised a fucking fuck fuck! from him.
Come to think of it, Gabe seems to feature prominently in all of his failures. Pete makes a mental note: stay away frm gabe.)
Seriously though, Pete means to keep this resolution. He really does, and he ignores Gabe's words taunting him at the back of his mind.
*
It's easy, the first few nights. Pete defiantly goes to a hardcore show the very next day, wearing the tightest jeans he could find that doesn't have to be cut off his legs to remove, and slouches against the wall near the back, eying up all the teenage scenekids contriving to look bored and disdainful behind their liner and pants almost - but not quite - tighter than Pete's, and certainly brighter.
He sees a couple of girls by the bar, skirts short enough that Pete knows they're underage by at least six months, hair mussed and lips slick enough Pete knows he'll taste strawberry or maybe mango, a new favourite these days among the kids - on them, and moves in before he catches Gabe's eye - from across the dancefloor with the blaring disco lights, what the fuck, was Gabe just waiting for him - and realizes.
Right. No minors.
Pete shows Gabe the finger, raising his hand a little just to be sure it's clear, and then looks back at the girls again, just one last time, before moving back to his spot. They're pretty, but not pretty enough for Pete to break his resolution. Pete smiles coolly at Gabe when their eyes meet again a couple of hours later - Gabe, Pete notices, has two decidedly inebriated jailbait on his arms, one of each gender - and gestures slightly, as if to say, nice catch.
Really, this New Year's resolution thing is easier than he thought.
It's easy, the first few nights. Pete defiantly goes to a hardcore show the very next day, wearing the tightest jeans he could find that doesn't have to be cut off his legs to remove, and slouches against the wall near the back, eying up all the teenage scenekids contriving to look bored and disdainful behind their liner and pants almost - but not quite - tighter than Pete's, and certainly brighter.
He sees a couple of girls by the bar, skirts short enough that Pete knows they're underage by at least six months, hair mussed and lips slick enough Pete knows he'll taste strawberry or maybe mango, a new favourite these days among the kids - on them, and moves in before he catches Gabe's eye - from across the dancefloor with the blaring disco lights, what the fuck, was Gabe just waiting for him - and realizes.
Right. No minors.
Pete shows Gabe the finger, raising his hand a little just to be sure it's clear, and then looks back at the girls again, just one last time, before moving back to his spot. They're pretty, but not pretty enough for Pete to break his resolution. Pete smiles coolly at Gabe when their eyes meet again a couple of hours later - Gabe, Pete notices, has two decidedly inebriated jailbait on his arms, one of each gender - and gestures slightly, as if to say, nice catch.
Really, this New Year's resolution thing is easier than he thought.
*
Gabe keeps sending minors of all sorts - tall, blonde, blond, short, pretty, androgynous - his way the next few nights, and Pete looks his fill of them, of course; his resolution prohibited action, not observation, after all, and the first few actually tempted him vaguely, in a sort of force of habit, but with each successive refusal, something - it could be resolve, Pete's not too familiar with that - strengthens in him. It's like each day spent successfully resisting the lure of smoking just bolsters the desire to make it through the next, and the one after, and then the one after that. After all, succumbing on the fifth day negates the painstaking efforts of the previous four, and Pete's not stupid.
Not that he knows anything about smoking, though. It's never been the vice for him.
Still, it's two straight weeks of accomplishment, and Pete's feeling pretty good about himself - two weeks! It's probably his longest commitment on anything, except Pete can't remember if his on-off-then-on-again relationship with that brunette with the pierced tongue back in university counts - when he struts into one of his usual haunts, hips cocked enough that the bouncers simply wave him past the queue.
Gabe keeps sending minors of all sorts - tall, blonde, blond, short, pretty, androgynous - his way the next few nights, and Pete looks his fill of them, of course; his resolution prohibited action, not observation, after all, and the first few actually tempted him vaguely, in a sort of force of habit, but with each successive refusal, something - it could be resolve, Pete's not too familiar with that - strengthens in him. It's like each day spent successfully resisting the lure of smoking just bolsters the desire to make it through the next, and the one after, and then the one after that. After all, succumbing on the fifth day negates the painstaking efforts of the previous four, and Pete's not stupid.
Not that he knows anything about smoking, though. It's never been the vice for him.
Still, it's two straight weeks of accomplishment, and Pete's feeling pretty good about himself - two weeks! It's probably his longest commitment on anything, except Pete can't remember if his on-off-then-on-again relationship with that brunette with the pierced tongue back in university counts - when he struts into one of his usual haunts, hips cocked enough that the bouncers simply wave him past the queue.
Gabe scowls terribly as he follows Pete in; he made a bet with Joe the very first day of the year that Pete wouldn't last a fortnight, and tonight's the last one in Gabe's window before he owes Joe a year's supply of weed. He's muttering darkly another one of those cute little Aesop's morals, something like pride cometh before a fall but Pete's riding happy on the moral high of a sustained effort, and ignores him in favour of returning to his stakeout.
*
"Hi," the boy leaning against the wall said, after Pete stands in front of him and stares for about a minute. He's standing in the exact spot that Pete had for the past thirteen days, and Pete's vaguely annoyed, because he marked the spot as his ten days ago, he thought, and now this new kid - Pete knows about everyone in this club by now, he's taken a special delight in enumerating them in his head, the ones he saw and resisted from defiling, a kind of reverse notches on bedpost - just decides to come and claim it for himself.
"You're in my spot," Pete points out, hands on his hips. He's bouncing on his feet, impatient.
The boy's eyebrow arched, a perfect unimpressed question. "Is that so?"
"It would be awesome if you could just move," Pete says, because what the fuck, is he not being obvious enough about his intentions? The boy doesn't respond though, just stares at him a moment before turning his attention back to the stage, where some shitty live act is performing, the lead singer not even close enough to the mike for his voice to carry, and Pete surveys the boy covertly.
Well, as covertly as he can while he's still standing in front of the person in question.
After a while, when it becomes obvious the boy has no intention to move, even though that is without argument the considerate thing to do, Pete huffs out an irritated breath and squeezes himself in next to the boy, close enough in his space that he's half in his normal spot and his arm is almost burrowed uncomfortably between the boy's back and the wall.
"What are you doing?" Again, that eyebrow. It comes as a complete surprise to Pete when he thinks, I want to lick that off. Pete's distracted enough by that unwelcome thought - seriously, where did that come from? He doesn't have an eyebrow kink! - that he ignores the boy's question completely, earning him a hard pinch in his side.
"Fucking - what did you do that for?" Pete yelps, glaring at the boy, who's scowling back just as fiercely.
"Stop trying to feel me up, you pervert," the boy shoots back, eyes annoyed and narrowed, and Pete feels that familiar swoop, that unfortunate sign of early-onset infatuation, in his stomach. It's faint, but it's there, and Pete swallows, suddenly taking in the boy's face, the lovely bridge of his nose, his lips, not glossy enough for lip tint, which means that hint of red in the club's dim lighting is all natural, and Pete wants to sink his teeth into it and watch that red flush into something deeper.
"Um," he says, words leaving him on the tide of want that rises in him out of nowhere.
The boy makes a disgusted noise, and peels himself away from the wall, torso moving in a subtle wave that draws Pete's eyes like moth to a burning flame, and Pete matches the movement without thinking, curling a hand around the boy's wrist.
"Wait -" he says, fingers loose and gentle against the soft of the boy's wrist, and Pete's mind helpfully conjures up images of him scraping his teeth over the pulse, pressing his nails teasingly in, watching bruises bloom against the pale skin, which delays his response when the boy jerks his hand out of Pete's grip. "Wait, I'm Pete, what's your name?" Pete says, desperately.
The look the boy gives him is incredulous. "I don't think I'm going to tell you."
Even Pete has to admit that that's probably a wise decision. Of course, the attempt at self-protection is ruined when someone calls, from the entrance, "Patrick!" and the boy - Patrick, apparently - half-turns instinctively, before scowling when he realizes he's given himself away.
"Patrick," Pete repeats. The name rolls off his tongue easily; it fits like a balloon string in his hand. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," Pete says happily.
Patrick backs away from the grin that stretches Pete's mouth like a hungry lion. Or tiger. The nuances between the two giant cats are lost in Patrick's anxiety. "I think I'm just going to leave now, if that's alright with you."
Pete loves polite young gentlemen; it provides a better contrast when he turns them loose out of their skin. "Okay," he agrees, before darting in quickly to press a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to Patrick's nose. The half-second of contact is punctuated by Pete thinking, Patrick has a lovely nose. Patrick's eyes are as wide as saucers - and twice as bright, Pete notes gleefully - when Pete pulls back. "Okay, off you go now." Pete shoos a slightly dazed Patrick in the direction of the door.
"I'll see you again, Patrick!" he calls, watching as Patrick hurries through the club and out the door. It offers a rewarding view of Patrick's back and arse, and Pete's pleasantly buzzed, a slight tingle in his hands that he welcomes after practically two weeks of celibacy - Pete's young enough that the clubs he hangs out in cater predominantly to an underage crowd, and wow, that speaks volumes about Pete's savory rating - and Pete thinks about Patrick idly, Patrick with his hands and finely-spun wrists and eyes that blink wide open, and he doesn't even realize he's hard right in the middle of the club until someone whistles as they walk past.
Joe claims since Pete technically didn't do anything to Patrick, Gabe doesn't get anything from him. Gabe calls Joe a cheating motherfucker and creeps into Joe's bedroom one night to swipe all his underwear, except that didn't work out because Joe just looks at his empty drawer a moment before going into Gabe's room to steal all of his.
Gabe glowers around the house the entire day when Pete points out that Gabe's idea of revenge ended up in Joe wearing Gabe's underwear, and Gabe with none at all because he threw Joe's out. It's oddly fitting, actually, and laughing at Gabe takes Pete's mind off how close he came to pushing Patrick up against a wall last night, close enough that he hadn't even noticed Patrick was startlingly young.
"Hi," the boy leaning against the wall said, after Pete stands in front of him and stares for about a minute. He's standing in the exact spot that Pete had for the past thirteen days, and Pete's vaguely annoyed, because he marked the spot as his ten days ago, he thought, and now this new kid - Pete knows about everyone in this club by now, he's taken a special delight in enumerating them in his head, the ones he saw and resisted from defiling, a kind of reverse notches on bedpost - just decides to come and claim it for himself.
"You're in my spot," Pete points out, hands on his hips. He's bouncing on his feet, impatient.
The boy's eyebrow arched, a perfect unimpressed question. "Is that so?"
"It would be awesome if you could just move," Pete says, because what the fuck, is he not being obvious enough about his intentions? The boy doesn't respond though, just stares at him a moment before turning his attention back to the stage, where some shitty live act is performing, the lead singer not even close enough to the mike for his voice to carry, and Pete surveys the boy covertly.
Well, as covertly as he can while he's still standing in front of the person in question.
After a while, when it becomes obvious the boy has no intention to move, even though that is without argument the considerate thing to do, Pete huffs out an irritated breath and squeezes himself in next to the boy, close enough in his space that he's half in his normal spot and his arm is almost burrowed uncomfortably between the boy's back and the wall.
"What are you doing?" Again, that eyebrow. It comes as a complete surprise to Pete when he thinks, I want to lick that off. Pete's distracted enough by that unwelcome thought - seriously, where did that come from? He doesn't have an eyebrow kink! - that he ignores the boy's question completely, earning him a hard pinch in his side.
"Fucking - what did you do that for?" Pete yelps, glaring at the boy, who's scowling back just as fiercely.
"Stop trying to feel me up, you pervert," the boy shoots back, eyes annoyed and narrowed, and Pete feels that familiar swoop, that unfortunate sign of early-onset infatuation, in his stomach. It's faint, but it's there, and Pete swallows, suddenly taking in the boy's face, the lovely bridge of his nose, his lips, not glossy enough for lip tint, which means that hint of red in the club's dim lighting is all natural, and Pete wants to sink his teeth into it and watch that red flush into something deeper.
"Um," he says, words leaving him on the tide of want that rises in him out of nowhere.
The boy makes a disgusted noise, and peels himself away from the wall, torso moving in a subtle wave that draws Pete's eyes like moth to a burning flame, and Pete matches the movement without thinking, curling a hand around the boy's wrist.
"Wait -" he says, fingers loose and gentle against the soft of the boy's wrist, and Pete's mind helpfully conjures up images of him scraping his teeth over the pulse, pressing his nails teasingly in, watching bruises bloom against the pale skin, which delays his response when the boy jerks his hand out of Pete's grip. "Wait, I'm Pete, what's your name?" Pete says, desperately.
The look the boy gives him is incredulous. "I don't think I'm going to tell you."
Even Pete has to admit that that's probably a wise decision. Of course, the attempt at self-protection is ruined when someone calls, from the entrance, "Patrick!" and the boy - Patrick, apparently - half-turns instinctively, before scowling when he realizes he's given himself away.
"Patrick," Pete repeats. The name rolls off his tongue easily; it fits like a balloon string in his hand. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," Pete says happily.
Patrick backs away from the grin that stretches Pete's mouth like a hungry lion. Or tiger. The nuances between the two giant cats are lost in Patrick's anxiety. "I think I'm just going to leave now, if that's alright with you."
Pete loves polite young gentlemen; it provides a better contrast when he turns them loose out of their skin. "Okay," he agrees, before darting in quickly to press a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to Patrick's nose. The half-second of contact is punctuated by Pete thinking, Patrick has a lovely nose. Patrick's eyes are as wide as saucers - and twice as bright, Pete notes gleefully - when Pete pulls back. "Okay, off you go now." Pete shoos a slightly dazed Patrick in the direction of the door.
"I'll see you again, Patrick!" he calls, watching as Patrick hurries through the club and out the door. It offers a rewarding view of Patrick's back and arse, and Pete's pleasantly buzzed, a slight tingle in his hands that he welcomes after practically two weeks of celibacy - Pete's young enough that the clubs he hangs out in cater predominantly to an underage crowd, and wow, that speaks volumes about Pete's savory rating - and Pete thinks about Patrick idly, Patrick with his hands and finely-spun wrists and eyes that blink wide open, and he doesn't even realize he's hard right in the middle of the club until someone whistles as they walk past.
*
The giddy feeling of walking on air dissolves instantly the moment he stumbles home later that night to find Gabe sitting in the couch, waiting for him.
"So." Gabe is smirking. "Do I get to collect my winnings from Joe? It's technically past fourteen days, but you met the boy before midnight, so it counts."
Pete's head is maybe a little woozy from the celebratory shot he did. Shots. "What?"
"The boy," Gabe repeats. "Or did you not notice? You usually have a much keener sense of jailbait than that."
Pete didn't notice.
The giddy feeling of walking on air dissolves instantly the moment he stumbles home later that night to find Gabe sitting in the couch, waiting for him.
"So." Gabe is smirking. "Do I get to collect my winnings from Joe? It's technically past fourteen days, but you met the boy before midnight, so it counts."
Pete's head is maybe a little woozy from the celebratory shot he did. Shots. "What?"
"The boy," Gabe repeats. "Or did you not notice? You usually have a much keener sense of jailbait than that."
Pete didn't notice.
*
Joe claims since Pete technically didn't do anything to Patrick, Gabe doesn't get anything from him. Gabe calls Joe a cheating motherfucker and creeps into Joe's bedroom one night to swipe all his underwear, except that didn't work out because Joe just looks at his empty drawer a moment before going into Gabe's room to steal all of his.
Gabe glowers around the house the entire day when Pete points out that Gabe's idea of revenge ended up in Joe wearing Gabe's underwear, and Gabe with none at all because he threw Joe's out. It's oddly fitting, actually, and laughing at Gabe takes Pete's mind off how close he came to pushing Patrick up against a wall last night, close enough that he hadn't even noticed Patrick was startlingly young.
*
It doesn't stop him from going back the very next night, though. It's a matter of pride; Pete's not about to stay away from the club because of Patrick. It'd be tantamount to admitting defeat, and Pete thinks he'd rather just break the resolution than let it break him. He dresses carefully the night - well, more carefully than usual. After all, there's no honour in a conceded battle, and all that.
Pete needs to stay away from Gabe's slogans. The club's preparing for their live music night when he saunters in, where they invited newly formed and nascent bands to try their hands at performing, and the quality's sketchy enough, but Pete's found enough gems - and guitarists or drummers eager enough for attention to meet him out back in the alley later - to warrant a look of casual interest over at the stage when he walks in to the emcee announcing a new act.
It coalesces into shock when Pete sees Patrick hovering awkwardly around the mike stand, as though unwilling to admit he's the singer. Patrick licks his lips nervously, and Pete tracks that movement involuntarily, staring at the slick of Patrick's lips under the club's flashing lights, the sweat already beading around Patrick's forehead. Pete spares a moment to think, fuck, I don't even care if he can't sing a single note because Pete's not discriminatory about talent, really, and then Patrick opens his mouth right against the mike, and Pete takes half a step closer.
Patrick's voice is low and sweet and it settles along Pete's skin like silk, a long, smooth length of black silk that loops around Pete's wrists and neck and hips tightly, and Pete swallows against the rising flood of heat in his throat, wondering what it'll be like to actually let Patrick tie him up like that, let that voice wash over him. He's staring, blatantly enough that Patrick flicks his eyes up into the crowd and catches Pete immediately. It's the briefest of second, and Pete's far away enough that he doesn't let his brain think, Patrick's blushing, because that's a little farfetched, even for him.
It's clear as day - or more appropriately for the setting, vodka or the nipple piercing of the girl sitting on the potted plant in the corner - when Patrick's voice cracks perceptibly over the next word, though, and then stays hoarse and breathless through the bridge. Their eyes meet one more time near the end, before Patrick finishes the song with a hair flick and a flourish, turning away from the crowd that has gathered almost immediately, like he was shy or something, and Pete feels slightly ridiculous, because there's no way Patrick is a real person, not with his voice and his eyes and his mouth and his ducked head and the twitching fingers against the pockets of his jeans when the emcee makes him face the audience again, as though he didn't know what to do with them.
People with voices like that are usually assholes; Pete has experience, after he went down on a couple of lead singers and they returned the favour with a handjob, explaining sweetly that they couldn't risk ruining their throats.
Patrick's band - Pete vaguely recognizes the bassist as the guy who outed Patrick the night before, in a manner of speaking - is packing up, and Patrick's presumably backstage, grabbing a bottle of water, and Pete wipes suddenly sweaty hands down his jeans. He's worked up, ready to push up the stage and fist his hand into the front of Patrick's shirt and lean him back over a convenient amp, and Pete takes another step back from the stage to distance himself.
Pete's a sensitive guy, he's a New Age man, except without that spiritual crystal bullshit - okay, it is conceivable that Pete doesn't know what New Age really is, but it sounds like it's something he is, except minus the, you know, spiritual crystal bullshit - and he's attuned to his emotions, whatever Gabe and Joe say about him being repressed and needing emo poetry as an outlet, and right now, he's getting enough to know that he needs to leave the club right this very moment if he doesn't want to do something he'll regret, mostly because Gabe will hold it against him for the rest of his life.
He's walking quickly towards the door, breath blowing out in tandem with his steps, and he's just relaxed slightly when his feet hit the pavement outside the club, the night air fresh, loosening the tension under his skin, when a low, familiar voice says, "Hey."
Pete's stopping and turning towards the sound before his survival instincts can even take over, and then a hand is tugging on his arm and he's pulled into the dirty alley next to the club that the owners like to pretend doesn't exist. Pete curses as he trips over an uneven spot and nearly falls flat against the very solid wall of the club; when he regains his balance, he's scowling up at his kidnapper and ready to throw a punch if the drunk guy who grabbed him thought he was a girl.
It's happened before, and it was a very unpleasant experience, but all thoughts of that are forgotten when Pete looks up to see Patrick in front of him.
"Hey," Pete mumbles, for the lack of anything better to say.
Patrick isn't smiling, not really, but a corner of his pretty mouth is dragged upwards slightly, and he's still breathing unevenly, vibrations that Pete can feel all along his body given how close they're standing, and belatedly, Pete remembers the reason for his hasty exit earlier.
"Good show," Pete adds, when Patrick doesn't seem to want to do anything more than stand in front of Pete breathing. "You were great, really. I was just going to -" Pete makes a gesture out to the main road, where cars with undoubtedly drunken drivers are passing by in sporadic flashes of headlights, and tries to make a break for it, because Patrick is wearing eyeliner, the faintest hint of it left on his eyes, and Pete's torn between telling Patrick about waterproof liner and dragging the pads of his fingers along the outline to test the skin.
"Um," he tries again, when Patrick makes no attempt to move.
"You liked the show, huh?" Patrick says, eyes steady on Pete's. Pete's acutely aware of Patrick's hands by his sides, Patrick's lips, the way sweat smells on him. Up close, Patrick seems impossibly young, every bit the classic teenage jailbait, awkward and pressing too close and inexperienced, and Pete sighs, feels something sink hard in him. It'd be just another alley fumble, maybe a furtive blowjob, feeling Patrick arch in his hands, shaking from his first shared orgasm, later shaking off the dazed look to walk off into the night, back to his band, and somehow that's just not worth breaking Pete's resolution anymore, not for something as meaningless as that.
But Patrick is saying, "I know you did, you were staring at me the entire time," voice suddenly deeper, nothing like a sixteen year old kid at all. Pete means to excuse himself, maybe tell Patrick to find someone else in the club; there were a couple of girls next to him who conceived an elaborate plan to somehow corner Patrick in the men's toilet after the show.
Pete's mouth opens on the words of the politely worded rejection he always has handy, before it closes again sharply on an inhale when Patrick's eyes drop conspicuously to his lips, lingering there, and Pete feels it like a physical touch because Patrick pushes in unconsciously, fitting around closely around Pete, shutting half the night out, it seems. Patrick stares at Pete's lips for an impossibly long time while Pete tries not to move at all, tense against the wall, the way he imagines the prey would position himself in hopes of the predator losing interest, but when Patrick drags his eyes away from Pete's mouth up to meet Pete's gaze again, Pete nearly moans at the dark, fervent look in them.
He bites his lip to keep the sound in, and that just attracts Patrick's eyes down again, and Pete knows in the split-second before he does it that it's a stupid, stupid move but it's too late, and Patrick's making a choked sound in his throat and then the world dissolves away into a bright, technicolour swirl when Patrick licks right over Pete's bottom lip, swiping his tongue over where Pete's teeth indent his lip, and Pete's mouth falls open on a groan, because that was no innocent, awkward teenage kiss.
"You were staring at my mouth the whole time," Patrick says, lowly and breathless, teeth replacing Pete's on his mouth, worrying at the swollen lip. "You were staring and staring, like you wanted to find out how they taste, wanted to lick them and bite them, weren't you?" he asks, and the words in Patrick's voice hit Pete fast and hard. Pete thinks dazedly, fuck he has a mouth on him, and lets his head fall back for more.
Patrick continues, still teasing Pete's mouth, feathering tiny licks with the tip of his tongue against Pete's lips, "You wanted my mouth on you so badly, didn't you?" Without warning, Patrick bites down hard on Pete's bottom lip, wrenching a gasp out of him. "Where else do you want my mouth, Pete? Your neck? Your ear? Or -" Patrick pauses, breathing hotly against Pete's ear. Pete desperately tries to wrap his head around the way the situation just ran amok on him, and then loses his train of thought completely when Patrick runs a hand down Pete's front to rest lightly on his belt buckle, a warm weight above the part that's aching the most, and Pete thrusts forward against Patrick's hand without even thinking.
"Patrick," he says, and barely recognizes his own voice, broken to pieces.
"Or somewhere lower," Patrick continues, panting hard. He's pressed up against Pete's front, unyielding and solid and Pete can't help pushing back, arching his back into the heat between them for more friction. "Maybe you want my mouth somewhere lower than that, Pete, maybe you want my mouth right over your cock -" Pete shuts his eyes and his hips jerk upwards at that, Patrick pushing that word out between them in his filthy, husky voice, and there's no way in hell this kid's underage, not with that mouth on him "- my lips stretch pink and pretty over your cock, letting you push into me, easy as fuck, wouldn't you like that, Pete? I would -" Patrick's voice breaks a little, and Pete spares the few braincells not spontaneously combusting to wonder if Patrick's faking it, if Patrick's terrified and nervous and just covering it a lot better than Pete, "- I would go down on my knees right here, in the open, and I'll put my mouth on you, and I'll suck you carefully, slowly, until you're delirious and breaking apart under my mouth -"
Patrick's hand has slipped right over Pete's bulge while he's distracted by the filth pouring out from Patrick's mouth, rubbing lightly, and Pete can't decide between pushing his hips up for more of that glorious friction, or surging up to lick those words right out of Patrick spit-slicked, shiny mouth.
"- I'll lick you, just flicks of my tongue against your leaking head until you're writhing, begging - you'll beg for me, won't you, Pete - and I'll hold your hips still, not letting you thrust even though it's driving you crazy, just crazy with the need to remain still -" Patrick continues, and Pete's actually going crazy, helpless and desperate for more friction, more heat, for Patrick to actually do what he's promising; he whines deep in his throat, back arching up into Patrick, and something seems to snap.
All of a sudden, Patrick's mouth is hard and furious and punishing over Pete's, no more of the previous flirting, just heat and pressure and demanding, thorough licks of his tongue deep into Pete's mouth, like he's eating him out alive, and Pete's mind is overwhelmed with images of that mouth on him, wet and gorgeous; when he moans into Patrick's mouth, Patrick swallows it and feeds one of his own back to Pete.
Patrick's gasping, nowhere as controlled now, the hand over Pete's cock trapped between their grinding bodies, and the other one rubbing up all over Pete, body yearning and desperate, the sixteen-year-old in him slipping out, and Pete's going to hell for this, he is, but that hint of eagerness, the sensation he remembers, from when he was sixteen, of wanting to climb right out of his skin into the other person's, Patrick pressed grasping and fervent right up against him, as hard as he is, cock heavy and hot against Pete's thigh, tumbles him right over the edge, built up by Patrick's hands and voice and the dirty words that seemed to just spill out of Patrick's pretty mouth.
Pete's mouth opens on a wild sound when he comes, and Patrick licks it right out of his mouth, so intimate and intense that it shorts out Pete's mind for a while, and when he comes to, their roles are reversed, and Pete's pushed Patrick against the wall this time, flattening the breath out of Patrick, and he's getting to his knees down in front of him. Patrick stares down at him, eyes blown wide and dark, and Pete doesn't waste a moment, just fumbles Patrick's zipper down.
When Pete wraps a steadying hand around the shaft, head already leaking, Patrick moans, a low sound that settles like an itch along Pete's skin, and Pete stares up at Patrick's flushed face, making sure Patrick's looking before he leans forward to lick slowly up Patrick's cock. Patrick makes a distressed sound, and slips a hand up into Pete's hair, surprisingly firm.
"Do it, Pete, fucking do it," Patrick demands, and Pete thinks about holding out for a while longer to pay Patrick back, but Patrick's hand is already guiding him down on his cock, all but moving Pete's head for him, and that's something Pete apparently finds an insane turn-on, because his spent cock jerks painfully and his mouth waters. He goes down on Patrick easily enough, stretching his lips over the head, holding his throat open for Patrick. Pete takes a moment to adjust, sweeping his tongue around the shaft, relishing the heavy salt and musk of the taste, before bringing his hand up to press lightly on Patrick's, the hand Patrick has on his head.
Patrick looks down in surprise, uncertainty flickering over his flushed, open face, and Pete returns the look meaningfully, removes his hand and rests both of them gently on Patrick's hips. His thumbs rub gently across the jut of Patrick's hipbones, slipping under his shirt; it's carte blanche, essentially, and Pete waits a second impatiently before Patrick's eyes darken, and he takes it. Patrick brings his other hand up to hold Pete's head steady, and then he starts thrusting into Pete's open, relaxed mouth, long, deep thrusts that hit the back of Pete's throat in little thrills of pleasure that ripple through Pete, and Pete takes it, lets Patrick use his mouth relentlessly, relishing the broken sounds that tip out of Patrick's pretty mouth to settle loose and heavy in the night.
Patrick starts babbling, bursts of words that curl up around Pete, "God, fuck, your mouth, Pete, look at you, on your knees for me, letting me just use your mouth like this, fuck," and Pete tries to shift closer, wanting more of Patrick's cock, but Patrick has him held right when he wanted, and that dominance sends a jolt straight through Pete, leaving him slightly light-headed, and when Patrick comes with a guttural cry, holding Pete's face back a little so it spills white and pearly over Pete's face, Pete groans together with Patrick, feeling his half-hard cock twitch painfully in protest.
He licks his lips to taste Patrick, and when he looks up, Patrick's eyes are shot nearly black, and he's staring straight down at Pete, not up into the sky and resting his head against the wall while thinking about his girlfriend or Katy Perry or the girl sitting behind him in Biology he never has the guts to talk to, like the other boys Pete has done this for, and Pete swallows against the sudden pressure in his throat.
"Fuck, fuck, Pete, come here," Patrick whispers, and when Pete rises, Patrick pulls him close with greedy hands and cleans up Pete's face with gentle, pressing strokes of his tongue, and when he's done, both of them are breathing hard again and Pete gets out, "Do you -" before Patrick nods, hard and oddly fierce, and Pete stares a moment before turning to walk hastily out of the alley, tugging Patrick along behind him by his hand, and they flag a cab easily enough, and Pete gives him a hundred to break the speed limit twice over because Patrick's already climbed into his lap, and okay, Pete did not see this entire night coming.
*
Besides, everyone knows, New Year's resolutions are meant to be broken, and Pete doesn't even care about Gabe gloating, because he wakes up the next morning with Patrick secure and warm in his arms, and it's better than any pillow, and it turns out that Patrick plays a million instruments in addition to singing and also makes an annoyed, snuffling noise if Pete pokes him up before eight most mornings, and what more can a guy want for his new year, anyway?
Besides, everyone knows, New Year's resolutions are meant to be broken, and Pete doesn't even care about Gabe gloating, because he wakes up the next morning with Patrick secure and warm in his arms, and it's better than any pillow, and it turns out that Patrick plays a million instruments in addition to singing and also makes an annoyed, snuffling noise if Pete pokes him up before eight most mornings, and what more can a guy want for his new year, anyway?
January 6 2010, 19:37:25 UTC 2 years ago
I loved Patrick. He wasn't naive and I *loved* that he went after Pete at the end of the fic. Conflicted Pete is my favorite. No joke. Joe and Gabe cracked me up. Come Gabe, did you really not have the foresight to see that Joe would just steal all your underwear and wear them in turn? Come on lol.
I love these lines:
Come to think of it, Gabe seems to feature prominently in all of his failures. Pete makes a mental note: stay away from gabe. - I think everyone should make that mental note...except for William
He doesn't have an eyebrow kink! - Do people actually have eyebrow kinks?
and he doesn't even realize he's hard right in the middle of the club until someone whistles as they walk past. - ...honest to god made me *cackle*, like some weird evil villain, I dont even know dude.
Pete's a sensitive guy, he's a New Age man, except without that spiritual crystal bullshit - okay, it is conceivable that Pete doesn't know what New Age really is, but it sounds like it's something he is, except minus the, you know, spiritual crystal bullshit - Don't feel bad Pete, I dont know what a new age man is either. Although I bet Andy would. He seems like he'd be a 'new age' man.
and well I love a lot more lines but this comment is getting long so I'll stop now lol.
January 9 2010, 14:51:14 UTC 2 years ago
I HOPE PEOPLE DO NOT ACTUALLY HAVE EYEBROW KINKS. That would disturb me a bit.
Thanks for the comment; I'm sorry the betaing is taking a while! I should get it to you in another day :D
January 9 2010, 16:45:37 UTC 2 years ago
January 10 2010, 12:53:28 UTC 2 years ago
January 10 2010, 17:20:49 UTC 2 years ago
January 11 2010, 14:39:35 UTC 2 years ago
January 11 2010, 21:58:40 UTC 2 years ago
January 16 2010, 10:46:42 UTC 2 years ago
January 6 2010, 21:28:32 UTC 2 years ago
*Thows glitter on you*
January 9 2010, 14:51:55 UTC 2 years ago
I love having glitter thrown on me, seriously :D Thanks for commenting!
January 9 2010, 16:41:30 UTC 2 years ago
Best/worst part about glitter is that it NEVER COMES OFF. Sucks when you're actually trying to wash it off, but fun a week later when you're amused by finding a random piece or glitter on your nose or something...
February 7 2010, 21:34:14 UTC 2 years ago
February 14 2010, 10:34:04 UTC 2 years ago
OMG BANDOM IS AWESOME let me know if you want recs/etc.
February 14 2010, 20:27:13 UTC 2 years ago
the only comm i know is anon_lovefest, and i've even written a ficlet for it. but any other recs are welcome, either pete/patrick or ptad (i don't even know what band pete/patrick is, i just like their dynamic)
February 15 2010, 04:47:27 UTC 2 years ago
As for recs: Oh Doctor Doctor (Ryan/Brendon), written by
I am hoping all my links work, and that this starts you off, just a bit (: Enjoy!
November 13 2010, 22:28:12 UTC 1 year ago